


The Lion's Son - One-Shot

by JosefAik



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Original Character(s), Originally Posted Elsewhere, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik
Summary: Set in a world after the defeat of the White Walkers and their armies of the dead, this is the story of one boy trying to connect with the father that he never knew, but who's legacy surrounds him completely. He must come to terms with the legacy that he has been given, and find a way to live as the son of one of the greatest legends that Westeros may ever know. He does this by visiting the ruins of Harrenhal, a place intrinsically tied to the epic love story that ultimately brought him into the world.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	The Lion's Son - One-Shot

Jammos Hill stood alone in the ruins of the mighty castle of Harrenhal, abandoned and empty, left to stand only as a testament to the ghosts of the past, and a monument to heinous acts and horrible crimes. Dust covered the stones, and saplings had taken root within the towers. One day they would form mighty trees, and this castle would be reclaimed by nature. 

He walked between the towers, his footsteps echoing through the deafening silence of this place. Every step disturbed the ominous and powerful presence of sheer nothingness. He had thought that silence was the key to serenity and inner peace, but not here. The silence here was like the baited breath of ghosts waiting for what happened next. He had met Kings and Queens, Knights and Lord, but in none of their presences had he been left in such fearful awe than with the darkness that this ruined castle conjured. 

He walked past the bear pit, stopping for a momentary glance, and feeling his hand run against the vein of one of the marble seats. He could almost hear the ghosts here, calling out for more blood to be spilled, their mocking chants echoing through the ages. It saddened him, and so he moved on, his eyes turned to the ground, his brow furrowed. 

He stopped himself just outside the bathhouse, and took a deep breath, steadying himself. This place was empty. There was no fight here for him to win, no foe to defeat, no giant to slay, and yet fear pervaded every cell of his being. This place... There were no words to describe the importance of these walls. To even try would be folly. These walls helped to shape him, helped to form him. The secrets that they held, and the secrets that had been shared within them... 

He lit the torch that he held in his left hand, his swordhand, and he stepped inside, lifting the light up, so as to best look at the room. He saw cobwebs and dust, but little else at first, as his eyes adjusted to the light. The baths themselves were, of course empty of anything, save for the debris, a physical reminder of the decay that held this place. He placed the torch in a sconce, and walked further in, leaving the comfort of the doorway behind himself, and pushing onwards, into the past. 

Even here he could hear the ghosts speak to him, reedy voices from times past, whose words carried to Jammos like they were on the wind. 

_By what right does the wolf judge the lion?_

His eyes took in all of it, eager to absorb evert little detail, imagining it when the room was scented by water and candles, filled with the sound of sloshing in the bathtubs, heated by the warmth of the water itself. Now it was cold and empty, a husk of what it had once been, of what this place had once meant. 

He sat himself down on the edge of one of the bathtubs, his legs swinging in the air, his green eyes focused on the dirt and the darkness below him. The torchlight cast his shadow across the room, long and imposing, when really it was the shadow of a mere boy. 

His mother had told him stories of this place. This was where she had first truly known his father, where he had first told her the truth of why they had called him Kingslayer. Few used the name now. They knew that Ser Jaime Lannister had fought for them at Winterfell, fending off the invasions of the dead. His songs were sung from the Wall to Dorne, and few were the lions sung about in the North. 

His life stemmed from the love between two people that, until they opened themselves to each other in this room, had hated each other, had despised each other, had done nothing but seen the badness in each other. This place had changed all of that. This place was the great leveller in the greatest love story that Westeros would never know. 

His mother, Ser Brienne of Tarth, was on the Kingsguard now. She stood for the king and spoke for her brothers. To some, his existence would be a blemish, something to be ashamed of, something that tarnished her white cloak, but not to her. His name was inked into her entry of the White Book, a bastard son of whom she couldn’t be more proud. 

He knew that ghosts haunted her, too. He had left her that night in Winterfell, made a promise that he would return to her, but fate had wrenched that string from his grasp. He had died in King’s Landing, a hero to the end. Trying to do the right thing until the end. Caring about the innocents until the very end. 

_I think it passing odd that I am loved by one for a kindness I never did, and reviled by so many for my finest act._

He had never known his father, though his mother told him that they looked the same. They had the same playful green eyes, plagued with a tinge of sorrow. They had the same cheekbones, and the same golden hair, which Jammos wore short, in a style akin to his mother’s. He had her smile, with a wide mouth, and slightly crooked front teeth, though his lips were thinner. 

“In the darkness and decay of this place I hear your words, but in the light of the world I am drawn here by you, father. This is the world that you helped to forge, with your blood and your tears and your sweat. Why is it in darkness that I find you the closest, when it should be the light for which you are remembered?” 

He would never receive an answer, no matter how many times he asked. He had hoped that here, where his father had opened up his darkest secret to his mother, he would find some sort of answer, something that would help him understand this existence, and come to terms with the memory of the greatest man that he could never know. 

His mother had taken him to Riverrun, and to Winterfell, to the Trident and, of course, to King’s Landing, but never to here. Jammos had feared that she wished to keep this place secret from him, a private place where she could find herself solace with the man that she had always loved. 

_And me, that boy I was... When did that boy die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys’ throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead._

He had seen the Riverlands in summer, and the Crownlands in spring. He had seen the fields of the reach glisten golden with wheat, and the glistening treasury of Casterly Rock. How could he have seen so much beauty and yet it was here, in the decaying ruins of a tyrant’s fortress, that he could best connect with his father? Where was the justice in that? Where was the justice for Jaime Lannister that this was his legacy? That he was his legacy? 

“When you killed Aerys, you did it out of love, out of duty, and the world hated you for it. They called you Kingslayer, they called you traitor. That darkness consumed you, and corrupted the man that you were. I know that mother helped you see past that, that she helped you see the man that you always were, the man that cared for his dwarf brother, that cared for his father. Even after everything, that cared for the people, even to his last moments. My mother saw that, but I never did. How can I see the light and the dark in you when I never got to meet you, father? How can I find that balance in you when this place is all the memory you have left me?” 

There was no answer. There never would be any answer, he knew that. What was lost was lost, and there was no way of changing that. This place stood as a monument to Harren the Black, as a monument to Vargo Hoat and Janos Slynt, to Danelle Lothston, and Gregor Clegane, and Roose Bolton, and yet it also stood as monument to his father. Maybe that was the light and the darkness to Harrenhal? People wouldn’t clamour here to remember Jaime Lannister. But here he could find peace and serenity and acceptance of what he could not change. 

His father had fought for many things. He had fought out of duty and honour, for family and for kings, but in the end he had fought for love. He had fought for the love of a realm that had shown him hatred and scorn, for the love of a sister who had turned her back to him, and for the love of a woman who would never do either. 

What better memory was there than that? Wnad what better could Jammos hope to be than the legacy of such a story? He was the bastard son of two knights, two commanders of the Kingsguard. He was the son of Jaime Lannister, and there was no shame in that. For his father may not have been the greatest man that Westeros would ever remember, but to those whose lives had been saved by him... It was a debt that could never be repaid.


End file.
